


House of the Rising Sun

by LittlePea



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Business, Dysfunctional Family, Emotionally Repressed Tommy Shelby, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Forced Cohabitation, Hard-ass Polly, Original Female Character don't take no shit, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Tropes, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlePea/pseuds/LittlePea
Summary: Very few people meet Thomas Shelby under agreeable circumstances.Being kidnapped by the Shelby's after a robbery gone wrong is not the most pleasant of introductions.





	1. Chapter 1: Kitten

Chapter 1: Kitten

_‘Useless people are the stepping stones of the powerful.’ -_ Her grandfather had told her this all throughout her childhood. 

'Are you useless?' He'd ask. 

Staring up at him fists clenched by her side, with all the resolution a five year old could muster she'd say 'No.' 

'We will see.' 

She has no memory of him hugging her, stroking her hair or kissing her skinned knee like she had seen English grandparents do. Despite this she had never doubted that he loved her. He had always tried, in his way, to make her life the best it could be. It was he who brought Ilia, the stableboy, to stay in their home and eat at their table. He had found her a friend when she thought there were none in the world. When her Grandfather died and the Melnikov empire was passed into the hands of her father only then did she become aware of how truly he had protected her. 

All she had now were his words and those she drew around herself like a cloak. 

She would not be useless. She would be powerful. 

And so she learnt everything she could. 

She observed the hurried figures of her fathers men darting back and forth across the estate. She wrote down who was talking to who, where they were, where they were meant to be. She had taken the time over the past few months to learn the name of every man that worked under her father - she knew their families, their positions, their loyalties.

When her father decided to starve her she knew who had bread.

She found out that the stable boy ran wagers amongst the other men behind her fathers back, the factory supervisor stole shamelessly from the stock, and her fathers liutenant fucked prostitutes when he was supposed to be on watch. They had become lax under her fathers leadership.

So when seven men, that she had never seen before, darted through the gates of the estate and into the stream of workmen she noticed. They wore the same dress as the working men but their backs were too straight, their heads too high for them to possibly belong to her Papka. She considered for a moment wether or not she should alert her father to their presence, though if he already knew of them he would scold her for being stupid and if he didn’t he would think she was attempting to embarrass him and punish her accordingly. Strategically, she was aware that playing the part of the simpleton girl was the better option but if these strange men were indeed invaders the business would look better if they were able to dispatch of them without any losses on their side. It was more important now than ever that they appear strong. She pulled open the heavy oak door of her bedroom firmly, tucking her notebook into her underwear, not even bothering to put on more than her slip and hurried down the hall to Ilia’s room. She knocked three times with a closed fist. He seemed relaxed, shoulders rolled forward, blonde hair mussed from sleep, but he was fully dressed and his gun was still in his holster though the room was black behind him.

 

“ _Moy Kotenok_ what are you doing here so late? …And dressed like that?” He asked his eyes taking in the light blue slip that, now in the light of the hallway, was almost translucent. She rolled her eyes at the childhood nickname and pushed her way past him into the room. 

 

“Seven men walking in a unit on the east side of the estate heading for the entrance. I don’t recognise them. Are they ours?” And as she said it she watched the any sense of calm be cast from his body replaced by the familiar attention of a soldier. 

 

“I don’t know. We did have some new arrivals tonight though so perhaps it is them.” He murmured. 

 

“No, we would never take in seven men at once, too large an opportunity for allegiances to form among them. Father knows that much. You notify him of their presence and I’ll secure the stock.”

 

He looked stuck for a second, not moving, his eyes flashing everywhere but her face. He ran a hand through his hair.

 

“Go back to your room, I can take care of both.” He muttered.

 

“No.”

 

“If you go, when I am with your father I will be thinking of you. If time comes to fight I will be thinking of you. I will be better off if I know you're safe. I cannot watch Evgeny spray your blood across the walls again - you know your father, if he finds you there he will blame you for this.”

She saw the gentle pleading in his eyes, the way the stress gathered at the corners of her mouth.

 

But she couldn’t.

 

“My way is faster and cleaner… There is no point in you doing both when I am perfectly able to help.”

 

“Kotenok - please” He put his hand against her cheek, running his thumbs under her eyes. She allowed herself then, in the darkness of his room, a moment to relax into him, to let her body be close to his own and she felt him do the same. Taking the small time they had to breathe each other in.

 

“Ok.” She said softly.

 

He visibly relaxed.

 

“I’m so sorry.” He exhaled, his lips against her hairline. For what she didn’t know and absently she wondered if what was between them might one day be more or wether they would always be two frightened children clinging to each other in the dark. He pulled away first, his arm stretching across her to open the door.

 

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked down the hall back to her bedroom. She wanted to look back at him and smile but she couldn’t force her face into anything past a grimace. Going back to her room was the right thing to do, he wasn’t wrong. But she was sick of doing the right thing all the time, of being fretted over like some helpless kitten. If it wasn't for her he wouldn't even know of the men - what other things could she see that he couldn’t. Certainly she had a good eye for business, perhaps even a better eye for danger. How far could she go, if she were only allowed. She would never know if she stayed confined to her room. Maybe she would be the one to stop Ilia from catching a bullet - save him like he had tried to save her.

 

She had felt it recently - a slight distance between them. It made her stomach roll. She paused at her door and turned to see if Ilia was still watching. He had disappeared. Her hand gripped the brass knob of her bedroom door.

 

If she stayed she would never know.

 

She whirled around, adrenaline shot like a lightning bolt through her. Ilia would have gone to notify her father first - she would still beat him to the stock rooms. She flew down the corridor, and then down the stairs through the main quarters and out into the courtyard. She ran down the two flights of stairs to the stock rooms, her fathers men rushed up past her barely taking notice. Father must have called reinforcement upstairs. She arrived at the solid white oak door that housed all the drugs and arms of the Melnikov empire. There were no guards. He father, the idiot. He must have thought they were there to kill him. One man is an assassin, Seven men are thieves. They were here for the stock and he had left it goddamn unguarded. She slipped inside the door, struggling with the weight of the heavy oak reinforced as it was with enough steel to build a train. It screeched as it opened and she cringed at the sound.

 

She pushed the heavy lead lock across the door until clicked in place with a dull thud. She didn’t need guards to protect the stock, there was no way anyone could get through that door. The room was pitch black and the air had strange metallic smell about it. If her father did not sort this out quickly it would be a long, cold night. Suddenly she regretted not wearing more than a slip. She walked further into the room amongst the shelves stacked high with sand and stone bags that hid inside them pounds of heroine, cocaine and ammunition. Her foot fell into something warm and wet and she gagged at the feel of it, fumbling her way to the wall she turned up one of the kerosene lamps there. Red goo oozed between her toes, it was only then that she realised the smell - it was copper. She looked further out at what the light just touched. An outline of a body stood boldly against the light. Perhaps her father was not the idiot she had assumed. Looking around the store room fear tricked down her back in cold as ice and hot as fire. She very quietly moved away from the wall and back toward the door. She turned her head for a fleeting second away from the vastness of the room only to be pulled backwards into the darkness by a solid mass. Feet thudded agains the cold concrete. A mans arms, solid like tree trunks, wrapped their way around her waist, instinctively she thrashed against them. A scream tore its way from her throat but the man ignored her choosing instead to slam her, belly down, onto the unforgiving cement. Her voice died inside her. ‘No, no, no, no’ she thought as she heard him fumble with his belt, one hand pressing her firmly down into the floor. She had never seen the ground up this close and noted absent mindedly that there were generous specks of shiny crystal amounts the drab grey of the concrete. She snapped back into herself and tears pricked her eyes as fear coursed through her primal and violent. She kicked out with her legs and caught him near enough to the crotch that he faulted, his hand easing on her back for a second. she rolled out from under him and leapt to her feet so quickly her head rushed and colour pulsed in the corners of her vision. He turned towards her and she scampered to the far corner of the room, just below the kerosene lamp.

 

Breathe she thought. Breathe, Think, Breathe. 

 

She had to stay calm. Think logically. She could see him clearly now, the line shining out against him. He immediately reminded her of the Golems from the stories she read as a child. He was a big, hulking man the top of his head almost flat, his shoulders cramped awkwardly into the confines of his coat. He wasn’t one of the seven that she had seen enter the building but the shine on his boots meant that he was most likely associated with them - which meant that she had been right. They were here for the stock. He must be their inside man. He wasn’t here to kill her but now he had to - and was more likely than not to succeed. She reached behind her, across the flat empty wall, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was nothing.

 

She needed to keep ahead of him, she needed to get to the door and run.

 

She eyed the door opposite her and without a second thought she ran for it. It was rash and she half knew it wouldn't work when she tried it. He hit her so hard she flew across the room, smashing into the heavy bags that lined the shelves. She felt the back of her head split open as she collided with the post of one of the shelves, colours danced in front of her eyes and a harsh ring sounded in her ears. Broken glass rained down upon her opening up tiny red slits in her skin. She struggled to her feet the world tilting in one direction and then the next, blood pooled in her mouth. His hand gripped her throat and he pushed her up the wall. She felt her feet lift up off the floor. Her hands flailed by her side, searching all around her for something anything to grip on to. She found something, a thick shard of glass stuck in one of the bags, on instinct she brought her arm up and swung it down with as much force as she could muster impaling it deep into his bicep.

 

He wheeled back letting her go and she pounced on him again, wrestling the glass out of his arm as she struck him with it again in the chest. He reached for her, his arm slick with blood but she ducked under it striking him again in the shoulder. Blood was gushing out of him now, leaving sticky puddles on the floor. She tried to wrench the glass out of his shoulder but it had become so slick with her blood that she could not grip it. He had a knife by his belt, she drew it an plunged in deep into his stomach. He made a sick noise in the back of his throat and collapsed on his knees.

 

The knife clattered from her hands.

 

In the darkness of the stockroom, by the side of a dead man, a now murderess regurgitated the contents of her stomach on a bloody floor.


	2. 2. Like a Dog to a Post

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rory travels to Small Heath albeit unknowingly.

Rory had only been on a ship once - when she was very young. It was the voyage from Russia to England and her memory of it consisted almost entirely of the sound her vomit made when it hit the dented bottom of the washing bucket. It was a long journey and she was so accustom to the ground shifting continuously beneath her, she became convinced there was no such thing as solid ground outside of Russia.

As she blinked her eyes open the ground sunk and moved as if it were alive. Colours, distorted and bent light, burst behind her eyes. There was a high whine in her left ear, her mouth tasted like copper and vomit. She could almost smell the sea.

They had chained her like a dog to a post. Her hands were wrenched tightly behind her back, the rope of her binds scratching against her skin. She was face down on the freezing floorboards, her threadbare slip doing little to ward off the chill. From her place on the ground she could barely see a thing.

She had to sit up.

As soon as she moved an ache began in the centre of her chest. The more she moved, the more she breathed, the further it spread till she could feel liquid fire running to her fingertips and toes. She couldn’t help but whimper, sucking in a deep greedy breath.

_Idiot._

Footsteps approached her. She stilled instantly. Perhaps they wouldn’t know she was awake - she just needed more time. Time to think of a plan, time to escape. She pushed her head into the frigid chill of the floorboards like a child hiding at night from a monster. It was impossible to grasp any of the thoughts that flew through her mind, she choked on her own breath.

_Think, Breathe, Think, Breathe, Think_

She felt the air shift in the room as her captor bent down beside her. Immediately she was enveloped in the reek of piss, whiskey and cigars - odour _ala_ drunk.

He put his hand over her mouth, pressing his thumb harshly into her cheek, fingers wrapping around her chin and jaw. He moved her head from side to side like she was a prize dog, twisting her neck sharply to face him. He was slight of build, not wiry exactly, but more skin and bone than muscle. Even crouched she could tell he was tall. Still he seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders drooped and his chin sunk to his chest. He had a thick moustache lining his upper lip and his mouth was set in a hard straight line. A three o’clock shadow shaded a thin face, with a nose that looked like it had been broken one too many times. It was the sad darkened eyes that turned down a little at the ends that told her the most.

He had been handsome once she was sure, when boyhood danced across his face rather than the shadows of war. It was a darkness she had seen countless times in countless men, a war stain it was. Dull blue eyes searched her own, even the glaze of alcohol couldn’t hide the storm inside them.

He was examining her the same way she was him. She almost laughed.

Absent-mindedly she wondered what he saw. Most likely not a lot. A woman - perhaps a whore, perhaps a lady. She imagined his examination would end there. That, she had learned, in her few years was how most men thought - where their interest in the female species stopped.

She could barely keep the hatred from her eyes.

He released her face as if burnt, jerking back like a frightened animal. He dropped her head sending a wave of nausea through her. She tried to turn her face away but then he was on her again. He pulled her face up twice as hard. It was at this moment, when his eyes returned her rage tenfold, that her stomach seized and she lurched forward toward him, vomiting all over his hand.

“Oh fuck.” He dropped her head again and she fell back against the floorboards with a thunk.

He retreated out of her vision. The was a great crash as he threw something across the room behind her, stomping around and mumbling to himself. A door slammed shut and then there was silence.

He was gone.

She had asked for time, and by the grace of god, it had been granted to her.

She resisted the relief that washed over her - just because they hadn’t killed her yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t. A dead captive was better than an escaped one. It would do her no good to underestimate him as he had her. Underestimating your opposition was the first step to losing, uncertainty was the second - another of her Grandfathers syllogisms. Drunkard or no, he was a soldier - one who had likely seen and done more death than her.

She sat up more easily now than she thought she could, though her head swayed and her body protested at the effort.

__Think, Breathe, Think, Breathe, Think._ _

What exactly did she know?

For one, they must not have planned on taking her. The room was too full and too used. It was a store room built of fine English oak, shelves were filled with pickled onions and crates of whiskey. Cards and a half finished puzzle sat on the singular table. It looked like she was in the cellar of someones home.

The fact that they had bothered to take her at all, not just kill her outright, meant they wanted something. Something that was worth the trouble of stringing her up in a room with a guard out front.

Maybe they thought they were being clever. Men often did. Thought they saw an opportunity to blackmail her father or something of that kind. If that were the case they would be sorely disappointed - he would rather leave her for dead then part with penny or pound.

Ilia would come from them though.

Perhaps they would want information - that usually meant torture.

The English did not excel in that particular field quite as well as the Russians had but torture was still categorically unpleasant and to be avoided at all cost.

Which meant she had to get the _fuck_ out of here.

Perhaps Ilia would give them a comprehensive lesson in the Russian art when she returned.

She pulled against her binds - the rope was too tight to break and there was nothing to cut it or burn it. It was looped around an old lead pipe that was attached to the wall with two loose screws. Her fingers were too bruised and cold to unscrew them by hand but the wall was old and the pipe groaned promisingly when she pulled against it. All she had to do was seperate one end of the pipe from the wall and she’d be able to slide the rope out.

_Hopefully._

Gripping the underside of the pipe with her fingers she lay down on her stomach, bending her legs beneath her. The rope was pulled so tightly against her wrists she felt blood drip down her palm and through her fingers as she moved. Whoever they were, they could tie a knot.

She felt like the Olympic swimmer she had seen photos of in the paper as she pushed away from the wall. The pipe screeched like hell as she did.

_God the fucking thing couldn’t be any louder._

It felt as though the rope had cut to raw nerve, her arms shook uncontrollably. She pulled again and the pipe gave with a harsh vengeful groan. Spite made her kick the bloody thing as she rose to her feet.

She stepped over her hands. Bound in front of her now she had to appreciate the knot - it was truly fantastic. Her wrists were less so. It looked like they’d been taken to with a saw, great bloody gashes circled them like red bracelets.

Bleeding out from a wrist injury - her grandfather would turn in his grave.

There was business to attend to. There was Ilia - her only family. God, if she wasn’t dead he was going to kill her. The lecture she would get when she got home would be one for the ages - perhaps English torture was the better option. She could almost see his face. If she died he would blame himself because he was stupid like that.

For him - she would live.

Living meant a door or a window. If she just got out of this house, into the street she’d have a chance. But if whoever had her was on their way back and she ran into them - well, people wanted an escaped hostage less than they wanted a dead one.

If they had no real plan for her, killing her wouldn’t cost them anything.

_Think, Breathe, Think, Breathe, Think._

She couldn't stay here any longer than she already had. Rising to her feet she made her way to the door. The handle turned without protest - the bloody idiot hadn’t even thought to lock it. The air in the hallway was still. She crept quiet as a mouse.

Every creak of the wooden floor sent her heart into overdrive. With every step she took she felt a growing anxiety in her chest. Above her she could hear movement, faint voices and footsteps. She was below the house. No windows. No foreseeable exit. She had to go upstairs.

The staircase was long and narrow, each step groaned and squeaked. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, what if she opened the door and 10 of them were grouped in front of it. What if…

She emerged in a quaint little living room. A family home. Where people ate, slept and drank.

These people, her captors, became real all of a sudden. Someone came home to this place everyday, someone cut the flowers that sat on the dinning table, someone opened the windows and dusted the mantelpiece. The room was lived in and was had a warmth in its simplicity.It was so strange to think of them as people, even for a fleeting second.

_Think, Breathe, Think, Breathe, Think - no more useless thoughts._

The front door, large and wooden, waited for her across the room. She ran for it but he knob slipped right through her fingers.

The door swung open.

A slim masculine frame filled the archway, all hard angles and rigid posture.  

She took a large step back but he followed her, maintaining the inch of distance between them. 

“You’re in my house” He said, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a real tease. 
> 
> It's taking longer than I originally anticipated to get to the good stuff so (as you may have noticed) I've upped my chapter number from 5 to 7. 
> 
> I hope the titbit of Arthur in this is enough to tide you all over till next chapter. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think down below.  
> It's honestly the best motivation to keep writing. xx

**Author's Note:**

> Where are the goddamned Shelby's !?!? 
> 
> I know, I know. 
> 
> They were there, I promise, just sneaking about in the background. 
> 
> Next Chapter will be more Shelby centric as our lovely Rory takes a trip down Watery Lane. 
> 
> Please Read and Review (it is the best motivator)!!!


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